


Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

by JulianHartley



Category: No Fandom
Genre: 18th Century, 19th Century, Boys Kissing, Canon Gay Relationship, Classical Music, Eventual Smut, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Gay Male Character, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Painting, Paris (City), Poetry, RMS Titanic, Roma | Rome, Romance, Tragedy, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25031692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulianHartley/pseuds/JulianHartley
Summary: Elias and Clemens had an affair three times, in three incarnations of different eras.They met in eighteenth-century diabolical Rome, nineteenth-century Paris dying romanticism, at the end of the era of artists and on the ship, at the foot of the twentieth century.In every incarnation, they are accompanied by a gold pocket watch, where tragedies are intertwined with soul artistry and mutual, burning feelings.These two are on the black list of all gods.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	1. XVIII

**Author's Note:**

> the original was written by me in Polish (and i just translated it) so please forgive me for mistakes, because English is not my native language.

Ginger-haired aristocrat takes a peek at his aureate pocket watch. It’s four o’clock, so his guest should have appeared a long ago. Youth is looking out the window with boredom, hoping that from among rose’s alley will egress dark-haired person. He sees a gardener, which with remarkable proficiency is cutting hedges, one of servants, hanging the laundry and a carter grooming horses, but he still doesn’t see a person that he is forward to. He really can’t stand tardiness. Ginger-haired looks at his watch one more time. Finally he hears resonant tramp of his servant’s shoes, which is briskly getting down the stair, so he can unbrace a little. With slight lateness his guest reached the place, so now man is heading toward entrance to invite his visitant, as befits a good host. To the room comes in a lady in long, inky dress and curls, falling on her shoulders. She holds in her hands scrolls of parchment and almost in voulu way she puts it on the ebony table, letting them to unfold. Then she crosses the room, to greet with the host. 

‘Good afternoon, sir Clemens.’ says elegant lady, taking off the glove and giving the redhead a slim hand so that he can kiss her. 

Clemens bows down to older lady and with a sweeping move he indicates that she should head towards to a spacious, ornate drawing room.

‘You won’t kiss my hand too?’ Suddenly Clemens hears strange, male voice and only after a while he picks up, that behind lady’s back stands blonde man. 

Clemens quickly look stranger up and down: he has bright look and smile, which says that Clemens should stay away from him. He has rod in his left hand, whereas right is almost all covered by ink. Clemens can’t assign him to any of ranks: his palms are soft, but dirty, his green justacorps embroidered is by a gold, silk strand and ornamented by expensive buttons, but at the sam time his shoes don’t sheen. They seem to be worn and decorative buckle is chipping. The richeness of boy’s clothing is clearly at odds with his profession, so Clemens is sincerely interested in the guy, who probably has already noticed that the redhead is looking at him inelegantly.

‘Do you like what you see?’ ask blonde man, smiling mockingly. 

Clemens’ ears and cheeks are immediately covered with crimson red, but he isn’t even able to answer, because the woman instantly speaks, turning around to the men. 

‘Pardon me,’ she says, looking at blonde. ‘He’s my son, Elias. He is just passing through Rome, creating a novel and I thought that I will acquaint you. 

Everything becomes clear: Elias is a writer, hence the inky stains on his palms, and worn-out shoes, testify to multiple journeys. Clemens is jealous a little. He never stuck his nose outside his native Italy, and although he is tempted by the rich recesses of Paris and the golden Vienna, his furthest trips are still only excursions for paint to Florence and several social gatherings in Verona, a few times a year.

‘Are you architect, sir Clemens?’ asks Elias, apparently uninformed by his mother about host’s profession, but lively and sincerely interested. 

For a few moments he is closely inspecting the stony, colorful floors designed by the redhead himself and numerous columns and facades in the aristocrat's manor. His gaze circulates between the multiple, gilded frames of paintings, he looks at sofa beds, which were upholstered in green upholstery, bleached facets and expensive, carved furnitures. Finally, sight of brown, extremaly clever eyes stops at the ginger-haired young man and stays there. 

‘Painter, specifying’ Clemens finally responds, focusing Elias’ attention on his words. ‘However, for some time I work with your mother and design mosaics and floors for nearby chapels and churches.’

Elias nods appreciatively and mumbles something about obsessive sacralisation of Rome, but he is quickly rebuked by the scolding woman next to him. Clemens already knows that this man can be nothing but trouble, but at the same time his charisma and a bit of insolence is alluring (which somewhat disturbs the redhead, who should just focus on the sacred tiles and bricks, and not the sinful beauty of the stranger).

‘Well, to the point. We had to talk about the floor design to St. Anthony's Basilica’ woman interrupts, picking up the scrolls and then she folds them into freckled hands. 

‘Naturally’ Clemens breaks out of his thoughts, corrects the skewed jabot and puts the absolute maximum of strength into focusing on his work.

The next hours pass on them on live devices: the brunette insists that the whole project should have the most sacred and symbolic overtones, whereas the redhead tends to abstraction and warm colors, which will flicker in the every ray of italian sun, when the light refracted by stained glass will be reflected on the subtle floors in the church’s main nave. He is not convinced to the panoply that woman likes so much, he would prefer something less detailed, which would attract attention, but at the same time did not collect all the applause. A blond sitting nearby, although he promised to settle for a scrap of paper and ink, isn’t scratches the next page of his work at all. He rests his chin on his hand and under the pretext of thinking about the choice of words he looks at Clemens: completely unsuitable to his clothes red hair, (which, against the background of white wigs and funny, large hats, seems almost unnatural in its naturalness), loose powders freely pale face and, finally, the lack of a fashionable mustache, as if the boy did not pay attention to what is actually au courant. Elias thinks that the painter is charming when he sketchly draws consecutive stone floors and frowns nervously, accepting the remarks of a woman older than him. The novel goes to the background. Only the artist's freckled hands, tense arms, silhouette bent over the design and his calm, almost inaudible voice in the second part of the room are important. Elias is afraid that he is done for. He has never denied that he was amorous. Although death has never been red-haired. 

‘All right, sir Clemens, we won't bother you today.’ the woman says less than four hours later, when it begins to get dark outside and the blue sky bows in the inky dusk. ‘Besides, in an hour Elias' ship leaves, and we still have to reach the port.’

Clemens feels some disappointment. Admittedly, he only exchanged a few sentences with Elias, but something interested him in this completely uncommon approach writer's to the life. He hoped that he would be able to ask him about travels and foreign countries, as well as ask about the novel, so information about his imminent departure just disappoints him.

‘Actually, I will probably stay in Rome a little longer. Although I thought I had seen everything in this city, it turns out that there are places and ... works of art about which I know nothing. I need inspiration and I think I found it here.’ 

The brunette's eyebrows are frowning in direct proportion to the face of Clemens, who seems to brighten. And although he doesn't know what else Elias would like to see in Rome, he is not going to complain and all the more refuse him anything. 

‘I didn't know that you would be so interested in church and religion.’ Elias' mother says a little puckishly, with a cynical smile, while her son subtly glances at the redhead to check his reaction.

He sees a shy smile and a look of green iris directed towards him, so even for a moment he does not regret his hasty decision and losing money for the ticket for the ship. Looking at that freckled face, he thinks that he might even say a prayer.

‘Maybe sir Clemens could guide you around the forgotten streets of Rome?’ continues the woman, completely unaware of the scene taking place in front of her. 

‘Sir Clemens, could you, please?’ Elias repeats brazenly and although his mother's words were completely honest and told in a good intention, in the mouth of the blonde their tone changes and becomes almost sinful.

‘With a good grace, sir Elias.’ Blush already completely covers the cheeks and ignites the freckles of Clemens, who now deliberately avoids the heavy look of dark eyes and pretends to look again at the sketch that he created with the woman a moment ago.

‘I'll contact you. See you later.’ says Elias and when he and his mother are already on the stairs, blonde turns around to Clemens and then winks.

Then Elias disappears from the painter's eyes, but the redhead is still standing next to the oak chest of drawers with flush on his face and stares with amazement at the place where the blond was standing a moment ago. Well, yes, Clemens definitely preferred men, but Christian Italy, like almost all of Europe, did not favor it, so he tried not to respond to any provocation, especially indiscreet and ruthless. But now Elias has appeared, insolent, as if ahead of his time, who seduces, flirts and seems almost unpunished without paying attention to the consequences. So if it was to turn into an affair, even a fleeting one, Clemens was not going to resist and he was ready to abandon conventions in favor of the young writer. Late at night, Clemens falls asleep, almost realistically feeling the hands dirty from ink on his arms and nearly seeing in the dark those sharp, hazel eyes that flicker in his direction. 

Not even two days pass when a messenger boy arrives at the brass gates of Clemens' estate with the message: at nine PM in The Venetian Square. Clemens doesn't have to ask. He knows that Elias sent this unsealed letter, so he glances at his favorite watch. Perhaps for the past two days his thoughts have mainly focused on a slightly arrogant writer, but he had no remorse. It was Elias who was the first to throw a flirtatious note about kissing in the palm of his hand, he closely watched the redhead and above all, he was the one who winked at the farewell. That is why Clemens did not feel angry at himself when he walked through the avenue of roses and once or twice thought of Elias' lips. Roses made him think of blonde man. Clemens Rhei had absolutely nothing to reproach himself with. 

A few minutes before nine o’clock he arrives at the foot of the Capitol. He immediately sees blond hair and hands with dirty fingers: Elias is turned back and by a piece of graphite writes something on the cuff of his pearly shirt, looking sleepily into the distance. Clemens decides imperceptibly come closer. 

‘Sir Elias’ says, when he is close enough. ‘Nice to see you again.’

The writer turns around and straightens, taking on the brightest of smiles on his face, revealing a row of white teeth. 

‘I figure we can dispense with the formalities. Just Elias.’ 

‘As you wish. So on my part I would ask for the same thing, just Clemens.’ 

Their conversation is cut off when a loud ringing sounds in the square. The bell tower of St. Mark's Basilica is just striking nine o’clock and people begin to gather around the main nave of the church, surrounding from all sides the door leading to the altar. Behind the facade echoes the muffled sound of organ and choral singing, which are joined by voices from outside: nasty wailing of devotees and desperates seeking forgiveness and voices of pilgrims singing in different languages. Clemens has no time to look at this sacred chaos any longer, because after a while he feels a firm grip on his wrist and sees Elias, who is trying to get them out of the crowd of believers, deftly avoiding the cabdrivers and street jugglers. He pulls him ruthlessly towards one of the narrow streets, ignoring the conventions, as far as possible from this religious blizzard. 

‘Hell, and I thought Barcelona was religious’ Elias pantes and curses when they are far from all this pathos, praises and mortification. 

They are now standing between shabby tenements, in a poor district, which despite the dignified neighborhood: the Venetian Palace, the Basilica and the sculpture of Bonaparte, looks poorly. Sad, washed shirts hang down between the shutters, dirty sand covers the ground, and the vegetation lives its own way. This was Rome: splendor and sacred wealth on top, and behind the facade of the market, in places inaccessible to pilgrims and travelers, poverty and ordinary life. However, it doesn't seem to bother Elias. He smiles and looks for a way out of the labyrinth of corridors and streets, as long as he doesn't get to the center of the biblical confusion. 

‘What were you doing in Spain?’ asks Clemens, following the blond. 

‘I was looking for an inspiration.’ 

Red eyebrows frown a little in disagreement. On the one hand, he understands it perfectly, sometimes he goes for a long walk in search of a painting idea, but a trip to Spain in quest of inspiration sounds absurd, a bit like a madman's plan. It could mean enjoying yourself, and the „inspiration” was just hedonism. 

‘I have a father in Spain,’ continues blond. ‘He lives in Barcelona, running a small school, so I can go there at almost any time. Which does not change the fact that their religiousness effectively rejects me from the whole country. You must have heard about their conversion methods and all that moralizing gibberish.’

‘Why this reluctance to religion?’ - redhead asks, interested in the writer's personal beliefs. 

Elias snorts, again taking on a pale face a scoffing smile of his sweet, mocking lips. 

‘I just haven't heard more rubbish than religion. But I suppose you live quite godly?’

‘My work does not affect my life, sir Writer,’ replies Clemens somewhat diplomatically. ‘But from what I remember, you wanted to see Rome unknown to you and not discuss religion?’

A gentle smile returns to Elias’ face. 

‘Lead, then.’

Clemens wondered what he could show to Elias in the Eternal City. He was not an expert himself and usually followed the beaten paths, so it was difficult to surprise the blonde with something new. He knew that he had to avoid churches and cathedrals, because even the most beautiful stained-glass windows of Rome, watery and colorful, would not delight the writer. He also doubted that the nearby art galleries would be interesting enough, especially for someone who travels as often as blond. 

‘I don't know exactly how to start.’ the redhead admits, looking around. 

‘Inspire me.’

And then Clemens comes up with the idea: since the writer defends himself against Rome full of angelic chants and a gentle, divine face, he will lead him to all those devilish places that resemble hell and tragedy, not the gates of heaven. The absurd opposite of divine, moral Rome will certainly appeal to a capricious man. Although the Eternal City is associated with frescoes and Michelangelo, sacred squares and gilded facades of churches, the pact of devil and Mr. Twardowski himself was to end in Rome*. Therefore, if Elias does not want the smell of incense and the sight of holy statues so much, Clemens intends to fulfill his wish and lead him to where only the diabolical smell of sulfur is carried. They wander the streets and labyrinths for a long time, passing ivy-covered walls and ruins of tenement houses, until they reach the first of few places chosen by the painter. He had not been here for years, actually only once came here as a child and the sight frightened him enough to not return again. They reach the fork of the river, which turns left towards the sea, while the right stream runs through the trees, hiding in the darkness of the forest. They pass between wild oaks and elms, and the river widens with each step and after a while, they reach to a damaged, copper gate with barely readable: mihi animas cætera tolle. Elias looks a little helplessly at the redhead with fear that they will visit a forgotten monastery, but Clemens conservatively says: 

‘Don't let your knowledge of Latin fool you.’

The sky is already inky and covered with freckles of stars, the moon rises higher and higher, paying homage to the night. They open the gate and enter to the courtyard, all made of blue and turquoise tiles, which stretches almost indefinitely, bathed in pale azure, until it suddenly breaks off and Elias' eyes meet the main attraction: the sunken cathedral that fell straight into the depths of the river. 

‘My great grandfather designed these floors and stained glass. He said that one of the priests had risked the devil himself, so he sent storms and winds to this place, which knocked the whole building into the water. Rome does not boast about this place, it seems to them that it will blow on the pristine, clean skin of the city. They are afraid of thinking that some of their people may have got into God’s black book. And maybe it's just a legend that was invented to explain the usual error of the constructor and human inattention, but I think there is something to it, since the inhabitants of Rome have forgotten about this place. They are terribly ashamed that someone could sin so much and lead to the flooding of the church.’

The fair-haired is too enchanted to make comments about sinking churches. He looks at the building covered with water, which is still lashing with the current of the river, observes broken, underwater stained glass windows that do not see the sun's rays, only the reflection of the moon at night, on the glass surface of the water. Rosettes and rotundas, columns and facades are covered with green lichen, the current of the river washes out the colors of the frescoes on the ribbed ceiling and at the bottom of river glisten crystals, which once shone on the chandelier during the liturgy, now spinning in the last dance. Only a few elements protrude above the surface: heads of statues of saints who are grieving and looking over the waterline, gilt putto angels, soaring roof, decorative cartouches and a monumental tower with a clock that stopped a little after two o'clock. The bells fell silent forever, muffled by the power of water - an unpredictable, destructive element. The cathedral's colonnade collapsed years ago, and although the place resembles the mystical Atlantis, it is impossible to discover lost objects that remained inside. The current of the river is extremely fast, at this point it quickly rushes towards the fork, and the obstacle in the form of a cathedral standing in the way promotes the formation of water vortices. No one has the courage to enter the water and discover the forgotten beauty of the temple resting under the water.  
Elias quickly writes a few words on the other cuff of his shirt, without taking his eyes off the objects that are spells under the water. He frowns, deletes the word and replaces it with another, finally writes something in much larger letters and underlines twice. For a moment Clemens wonders what the rest of the writer's wardrobe looks like, because he completely does not care that his clothes are neat and scribble the material without hesitation.

‘Sic transit gloria mundi,’ mumbles Elias, breaking the silence. He will not admit it aloud, but he is enchanted: by this place, unknown to him Rome and above all - Clemens - which seems a bit scared and at the same time overwhelmed by the enormity of destruction. ‘This inscription would fit the gate a little more. That had inspired me.’

Clemens breathes slightly relief. The first of the places that the Eternal City has forgotten, appealed to the chimeric writer, so a slightly bolder redhead suggests a further stroll. They return along the same road, turning near Plaza de Espana, and then again turn between the dark streets. This is one of the sadder views for Clemens: the deserted, gypsy camp. Wooden carriages with ripped, decayed planks are deformed, and red curtains bitten by moths hang sadly from the shutters. Their everyday objects are scattered around: pots, colorful clothes and instruments, so the place looks as if the owners are about to return. Elias does not fully understand what is tragic in deserted carriages, left almost overnight. 

‘This is place where music died,’ explains Clemens, picking up a disrupted, broken violin. ‘These gypsies have lived here for years, I remember that in my childhood I often listened to their singing and violin csardases from the window until dawn. However, there were those who disturbed their pagan rites and songs that praised other gods. In Christian Rome there were no places for folk rituals and joy, so the pope gave the order to expel them. And the music disappeared overnight, replaced by a loud ringing of bells and sad psalms. These people were thrown out of the city, explaining the cruel decision as preventing heresy, paganism and numerous crimes. Anyway, there were several hundred such rolling stock in Italy, I could name a few here in Rome. Now, there are basilicas in those places and it's a bit like getting rid of evidence of a crime. If not for the fact that we are too far from the center, and this place is not suitable for constructing any buildings due to landslides, I am sure that this rolling stock would also be liquidated.'

Now Elias looks at the place a bit differently, a bit like a cemetery or a crime scene. Suddenly, the violin that Clemens holds seems to cry with every tug of the strings, as if in longing for the rightful owner, and objects scattered on the sand are the only memory of the escape of the itinerant people. The fair-haired man smiles suspiciously and extends his hand for the instrument. A moment later he finds a worn string in one of the wooden wagons, spins the pins at the base of the violin for a moment and puts it on his shoulder.

‘Elias, I don't think ...’ Clemens tries to say, but Elias effectively silences him, first taking his breath away with another brazen wink, and then pulling by a bow on the strings, while bringing out a brisk, low sound. 

Clemens recognizes the song: it is one of those sad, gypsy melodies that he loved to listen from the window and does not know whether he is more surprised by the knowledge of the aristocrat of these melodies or the fact that this damn blond can play the violin and did not mention it. The redhead wonders if the man standing in front of him has Balkan roots and hot blood in his veins. If not for his grayish blond hair and impeccably pale complexion, he would be almost certain of his southern descent. Although the violin seems to be damaged: it lack the string, with almost every sound they untune by another half-tone, and the boards they are made of are sticking out, Elias' workshop makes them sound like he played the most expensive Italian Stradivarius. His fingers easily learned to climb up the violin’s neck, his left hand chasing the right one, which holds the bow, and the face is not contorted in a grimace, just like the faces of other musicians who played Bach and Beethoven in the salons of the Eternal City. Music is something natural for him - fun, not a salon duty, when playing with concentration for the king. And if Clemens had any doubts about being infatuated with the young writer, now he is completely convinced that he lost his head for him. 

‘You have not boasted that you are a violinist’ says the dazed painter when Elias finishes his virtuoso show and gently puts the violin to the carriage, tenderly covering it with a piece of material found on the wooden stairs. 

‘You never asked if I was a violinist,’ he says with a cheeky smile as he leaves the carriage. ‘I was inspired. Are we still going somewhere? It is already completely dark.’

Clemens plans another place, which - although it was supposed to be quite sacred in mind - again completely changed its destiny. This should be liked by a writer who shows an extraordinary interest in everything that is devilish in some way, or at least deviating from God.  
‘In place where we go, there is dark regardless of the time of day.’

This time the hike is a bit longer. Rome is not a small, provincial town, but a pillar of the whole country, so it is already a deep night before they reach their destination. The moon illuminates their pale faces, the streets are empty, and beyond them and the stars, there is no one left. From the narrow streets sad faces of beggars come out, who rarely see aristocrats walking this way, especially at such a late hour, and hoof beats and singing psalms - never quieten voices of Rome – are cavernous and inaudible. The Eternal City is fall silent. 

‘Be so kind and tell me where we are going?’ asks Elias as they approach the Coliseum.

Clemens still smiles suspiciously. After all, wasn't this what the violinist wanted - the diabolical face of the city?  
‘To the bottom of hell.’

They pass the ruins of the former amphitheater, when Clemens burrows the soil and sand with a cane next to the building. Soon after, a rotten flap appears with a flat, round knocker. Redhead, ignoring dirt and rust, opens the door and gestures with a brisk gesture to Elias to go ahead. 

‘You do not think I will enter the depths of pandaemonium - blond protests, seeing suspicious lights inside.’

‘We can go back to Venetian Square and pray if you prefer.’ 

Elias sighs and carefully puts his foot on the first step of the stairs. It looks at least like a haunted catacomb or mausoleum of the royal dynasty, with the smell of sulfur mixed with kerosene from everywhere and it is probably the place where Mephisto himself would pray. Torches are burning in long corridors, there are a lot of incomprehensible words and signs on the walls, and the crypts that they pass by seem to know more secrets than the Vatican itself. The mazes from the corridors do not seem to end, and behind each turn there is another, looking exactly the same as the previous one. Elias hopes that Clemens remembers the way to the exit, because if they got lost they would probably get stuck in the underground forever.

‘You are not going to sacrifice me, I hope?’ Elias asks, and although this is an absurd question, inclining to wit, he feels unpleasant chills on his back.

‘Welcome to the mausoleum of Roman gods. Or, as it has recently been fashionably called, the Masonic Lodge.’ says Clemens with a suspicious smile when they reach one of the crypts that is drowning in papers, plans and scrolls.

Elias is already certain that he met the devil himself, who under the mantle of angel curls and creating sacred floors, leads him to temptation. He expected the young painter won’t be so innocent and perhaps he will seduce him, but he did not suspect that he could be a damn freemason. 

‘Do you belong to this grouping?’ ask with slight concern the writer who, thanks to his mother and numerous travels, heard many stories about the Masonic Lodge. Not necessarily the glorious ones.

‘Not yet, but my grandfather belongs. Let's put it this way: although I am not a full member, the gentlemen are implementing me, and thanks to my grandfather I know quite a lot, maybe even more than I should.’ Clemens looks at Elias' face lit with only one torch and sees anxiety, which the blonde probably does not control. The man smiles, pleased that he managed to surprise the choosy writer, in addition arousing extreme emotions. ‘Fear fell on you? As I mentioned, there should still be prayers on Venetian Square…’

Elias sees a laughing, freckled face and knows that although Clemens is completely different than he seemed two days ago, he has no bad intentions. Anyway, all this demonic personification is extremely appealing and Elias is not sure how long he will be able to stay upright. Especially keep his own hands with himself.

‘Are you inspired?’ Asks this time Clemens himself, looking from under the curls at a somewhat diffuse writer, who writes by the remnants of graphite words important for his novel on the hem of his shirt, strolling through the dark corridors of the underground. Once again, he looks at the walls carefully, but he doesn't try to read the notes, for fear of his own safety, after all, he heard some stories about the group of Freemasons. And although Elias always liked to play with fate, he preferred not to risk this time.

‘I am. It’s late, let’s go back.’

The return journey is covered with pleasant silence, comfortable and very natural, tireless. In the distance they hear the belfries, striking two o'clock, crickets and cicadas play a little closer. Sleepy Rome fell from strength and neither the rough sea nor the gypsy songs from behind the capital's gates reach the streets of the Eternal City. The theater stops staging its most eminent and popular performance and only in the middle of the night is the curtain of the sacred performance tightly closed. Secondary heroes may finally appear on stage: silence, disorder and truth, which in the light of day is suppressed by hypocrisy and an attempt to mask the sins of the city. Sometimes even the theater director himself appears, the devil, bowing only when the tiring accompaniment of the bells and songs stops, and he can finally dress his favorite demonic smile and show a small audience, lost in lethargy, that it is not for sacred figures and paintings the pilgrims pray. 

‘I insist you to come to my place tomorrow and tell me about the novel’ asks Clemens when they reach the painter's estate. After his words, he puts a small watch in Elias' hand. - Do not be late.

‘It would be a disgrace to refuse. Good night, sir Clemens.’ the blond man grabs his hand, but does not clamp it in his own, but leans over and kisses. The painter does not have time to react, because immediately after that, the silhouette of the writer disappears in the dark. 

And when Clemens is lying in bed, in a long, white pajamas, worthy of Louis XIV himself, with flushes on his face, he thinks that someone else would easily fit next to him on the bed, preferably someone with ink and graphite hands, someone smart, well-read and insolent, with fair hair and a summer storm look. 

The next day, punctually with the clock in the living room beating, a writer appears at the gates of Clemens' estate, carrying a large briefcase and several rolls of parchment. Redhead impatiently waits for Elias to tell him the story he invented last night, so as soon as he appears at the threshold of the living room, Clemens floods him with questions. Elias spreads the papers on the same table where his mother put her projects a few days earlier and illuminates them with a oil lamp.

‘The novel will be about the violinist and devil’ begins Elias and the redhead immediately notices the inspiration of the abandoned rolling stock and yesterday's violin concert and this peculiar journey into the underground of the Colosseum. ‘Violinist, desperate for recognition, signs a pact with Satan and is to enjoy fame as long as he plays and gives concerts. The devil cannot seize his soul as long as his music is alive. That's why one day he drowns his violin. Of course, before I start writing, I will enrich it with side threads, but I wanted to write something that was entirely created yesterday: a violin from rolling stock sunk like a cathedral in the river and the devil, which miraculously we did not meet in the mausoleum.'

Clemens looks at the notes in italics, which seem to be an ancient manuscript in candlelight. He notices single, inaccurate paragraphs, words that will soon become part of the work and become whole pages and later chapters, single adjectives, ready to be used. He is delighted with the idea not only because it seems intriguing, but because he himself put his hand to it, pointing to the writer's inspiration. 

‘I can’t wait to read the whole thing.’ 

Elias smiles shyly and quickly adds a few words on the unfolded parchment, but his eyes are still turning toward the living room walls and paintings, in golden frames.

‘Are you their author?’ he asks, hanging his eyes on the painting just above the piano.

‘Most of them.’ 

Elias seems to be fighting his thoughts for a short while. 

‘Would you paint my portrait, sir Clemens?’

And well, Clemens is definitely surprised. For some time he did not have a brush in his hand, he definitely focused on floors and mosaics, so sketches and landscapes went to the background. Now, however, in the face of Elias' request, he is unable to refuse. Painting his portrait would mean a few more hours spent together, as well as an excuse to look at the man's shoulders with impunity, sharp cheekbones and chocolate look, so he wouldn't dare refuse. 

‘Naturally. I invite you to my atelier, then. 

Elias leaves the parchments, papers and sketches of the novel scattered on the table and immediately jumps from his place, almost falling over on a folded carpet. Clemens leads him to a small room on the first floor and sets him against a dark green curtain. He prepares paints, intricately choosing a color palette, puts clean, bleached canvas on the easel and collects brushes scattered in fury. When he is ready, he approaches Elias waiting at the curtain to set him in the right position. When the painter's bony fingers slightly exaggerate boldness suggest removing the vest, this does not escape Elias’ attention. 

‘So you'll be painting the act?’ blond asks brazenly. ‘Do you like painting naked men?’

Clemens tries to ignore provocations from the blonde. He takes off his decorative fancy justacorps and to the accompaniment of murmurs on the part of Elias, leaves him in a shirt, with dirty cuffs, falling gently from the shoulder. He even has the thought of dressing the blonde in a corset. He doesn't want another portrait of an elegant and tense dignitary in full and expensive clothing. Instead, he would prefer a painting in cold colors - white and blue - blond whose light shirt blends with milky skin close to his neck, light hair cascades down his shoulders and only dark eyes contrast with the pale young man. Without unnecessary valuables - something natural and gentle. Clemens, full of professionalism, tries to put an unruly strand of hair behind the model's ear and, well, then things take an unexpected turn.  
The whirlwind of Elias' arms wraps around his neck, as if a man were about to fall, and then once again breaks all the rules and conventions, whispering straight into the painter's ear:

‘Forgive me, will you let me kiss you?’ 

Clemens cannot be long asked. His thirsty lips quickly find the writer's narrow lips, and his freckled hands are tangled by light curls. The writer's strong arms still embrace the redhead's neck, and shortly thereafter bony hands travel through Clemens’ loins and back, up to red curls. Both men realize that it only goes in one direction and when Clemens already has only a silk shirt on his shoulders, and this Elias’ one falls from the shoulders to the ground, they decide to move to the next room: the painter's bedroom, where the large bed is almost waiting to receive them. And although Elias is not the first redhead’s lover, he certainly is the last one, because Clemens cannot imagine that he could ever be with someone else. When they reach the room, the painter is wearing nothing but rings, and only white stockings are left on Elias' slim legs. The corridor is decorated with shirts and vests, a blond’s tailcoat and coulotte pants, as well as lace cuffs and jabots, which they managed to unfasten extremely efficiently, without breaking their own thirsty lips for a moment. They reach the bed and collide in another, fiery kiss, which may have been written to them on the first day.  
When they are completely naked Clemens can fully admire Elias' uncontaminated whiteness, with smallpox marks just around the neck, slender hips and fragile ribs. The blond looks at the contrast, however: the surface is completely covered with freckles, free of powder, several scars from the past and pink skin. Clemens’ cheeks are clothed in scarlet, and alabaster skin touches the one on which the whole constellations of freckles are scattered. The writer's fingers clench on the redhead's thighs, pulling him even closer - hips at hips - and the painter does not remain indebted, pulling light strands of hair, panting heavily and repeating incessantly to hell, exposing himself even more.  
Elias kisses from the neck down, kissing wherever his lips lead him, and Clemens writhes and moans, squeezes the writer's arms and satin sheets, loudly hinting at the service as he spends the evening. And in all this there is a sickly longing, completely unlike short acquaintances, but who knows how much time was given to them before. Men completely lose the sense of reality, they are carried away by their realization, definitely drowning out the bells of the basilica, in which the next service begins.  
When the gold watch indicates two o'clock, they are lying calmly, looking into the canopy of the bed and regulating breaths. The writer's hand sleepily combs tangled rust curls, and a curtain of tobacco smoke surrounds the two of them, as if separating them from the whole city. Elias' pale arm pulls the painter to him and before any man is able to register it, they fall asleep, running their heads off the sacred ground of Rome. Perhaps they would stay in this embrace all night, were it not for the heaviness that Elias wakes up from sleep. He feels like a heavy weight has fallen on the bottom of his lungs, and the sailing knot tightened around his neck, taking his breath away, so he opens his eyes and notices with horror that the whole room is enveloped in heavy smoke. His eyes are quickly crying and he tries to cover his mouth with a scrap of a nightgown lying on the floor, but the smoke is too thick. He immediately wakes up the sleeping man and before he starts to panic, he tries to find the source of smoke rising in the bedroom. As soon as he opens the brass door, the tongues of fire burst into the bedroom, catching a rug in the elemental net, which immediately begins to burn. 

‘How shall we get out of here?!’ he shouts at the terrified painter, whose red hair almost blends with the color of the ghostly conflagration. Clemens is still sitting on the bed, desperately squeezing a piece of the comforter, as if it were to separate him from the element that was pushing from all sides. 

‘The only way out of the bedroom is the door.’ he says, terrified, though ridiculously calm, as if reconciled with death, still trying to breathe in and escape the element.  
However, it is too small and fragile to be able to fight the destructive conflagration in any way. Elias is again trying to break through the pillar of fire, but now the curtains in the windows and paintings soaked in oil are burning, so their chances of escape decrease. The blond man tries to cover Clemens somehow, but he is already poisoned with smoke and slowly falls on the bedding, without even saying goodbye. Elias is powerless, wants to take on a frail painter and carry him out of the burning building, but the whole room is shrouded in heat, and outside the temperature reaches several hundred degrees. He screams for help, but his voice disappears among the broken in time furniture and disappearing memories of the era forever. He wrestles with the window frames for a moment, tries to extinguish the fire, but the elemental force is much greater than his attempts. His cheeks are wet with tears, by no means caused by lethal smoke, and his right hand has a calming pat on the sweat stuck to the unconscious painter's red curls. Elias knows that all he can do now is reconcile with God and wait for death. Finally he loses strength and gives up. His breath sinks in his throat and it is getting harder to catch his air, his eyelashes stick to his tears when he cries, now quite loudly, for fear of death. He lies down next to the dead Clemens, in a cloud of smoke catching his last thought: Rome is burning again.

In the morning, the property ceases to exist. Perhaps this is due to the lamp left by itself, which starts the fire by touching a burning hand of death one of the sketches of the novel about the devil. Maybe the arsonist is a fierce man who quickly moves towards the Colosseum to keep his secrets hidden underground. Among the pile of incinerated books, furniture consumed by fire and lost memories of the era, a copper pocket watch cools down. 

* It’s reference to polish legend. According to this legend, Twardowski was a nobleman living in Cracov (Poland) in the 16th century. He sold his soul to the devil in exchange for great knowledge and knowledge of magic. However, he wanted to outsmart the devil, so he added to the signing with him the paragraph that the devil could take his soul to hell only in Rome, which he did not plan to go to. After many years, in a tavern called Rome, the devil caught a nobleman. During the abduction he was supposed to pray to Mary (or according to another version, to sing a church song), and the devil lost him along the way. Twardowski landed on the moon, where he stays to this day, watching the actions of people on Earth.


	2. XIX

The concert hall is full. Creamy facades could tear from the sheer volume of ladies in decorative hats and tight corsets, with pearls around the neck and men, constantly improving their tailcoats, and the shiny floor disappears under the weight of heels. There is a suffocating scent of women's perfumes, echo of gossip and nervous whispers among girls in the first place everywhere: 

Where is he?   
Supposedly, he always takes opium before he enters the stage and he’s never sober.   
When he was nineteen he was hailed as the most talented violinist after Paganini himself!  
I heard he signed a cyrograph with the devil. Apparently, most of his lovers are men! 

Clemens rolls his eyes inappropriately. He is not happy that he and his mother had to go to this unfortunate concert. He would definitely prefer to paint in the garden or go on a horse ride with his cousins. After all, he doesn't even like music: he had to listen to the miserable attempts to play his sister's piano too many times, and this hysterical and capricious musical company in which his mother revolved gave him a headache. Unfortunately, as soon as the woman heard that one of the Polish musicians came to Paris, she immediately missed the country and without asking her son for any opinion, forced him to come to the concert with her, telling him to dress his elegant frock coat and make unruly curls to they did not fall on his forehead and shoulders. It feels almost like a clown. He sits in the second row, with his mother on her left and a powdered Frenchwoman in a too tight corset on the right, surrounded by music lovers impatiently waiting for the violinist, who Clemens doesn't care much about. Musicians have always been a bland and superficial group for him, too much to notice the beauty the world. He definitely preferred writers and poets who, although almost melted in their melancholy, did not hide in the fog of their own pride and narcissism. Finally, to the delight of the viewers, the boy entering the stage, holding the violin. The first thing Clemens sees is the artist's young age. He expected the violinist to be at least thirty years old with a tired, haughty face, but the fair-haired musician is not even twenty-five years old. To the redhead's surprise, the violinist does not have a disrespectful expression on his face, he does not look at the audience with superiority and, above all, he does not wear a tailcoat which is required by etiquette. Instead, he has a flaccid, almost translucent satin shirt, his cuffs are fastened with golden buckles, rolled up, gently revealing his wrists, all ribbons are tied tightly in a knot, and the up collar is surrounded by a black scarf. However, all this is lost in the face of an incomplete wardrobe. There are whispers in the hall: the ladies mumble French words of indignation, the men shake their heads in disbelief, and the girls in the first place giggle and fan themselves energetically hoping to be noticed by the young violinist. Clemens is a bit bored with this. This is another miserable performance in which he is forced to participate and listen to nonsense. So he rolls his eyes again and improves slightly in the chair, hoping that he will be able to go unnoticed during the concert. While the crowd calms down, the musician prepares the instrument for playing: he pulls the bow, tunes the violin and whispers something to his accompanist's ear. Clemens did not think that he would be so interested in the character of the boy on the stage, but he explains to himself that, in fact, there is nothing else to do here, and watching music is the best way out in the face of the unfortunate situation in which he found. When the confusion is dispelled, the boy bows elegantly and places the instrument on his left shoulder. He scrutinizes the audience for a moment, keeping his gaze a second longer on the bored redhead boy sitting in the second row. Among all these powdered ladies, red freckles are reflected so strongly that it is impossible to overlook them. Especially if you have a weakness for freckles.   
Finally, he begins the concert: the musician plays several well-known works, bowing neatly between each, always looking at the boy in the second row, until he finally performs a spectacular number: one of the then popular csardases. Once again, he surprises the viewers when he adds his own trills and circulators to the composition, completely changes the idea of the work, weaving lively phrases from it, playing low, clear sounds that resemble sobbing and trembling. The audience is touched. The fair-haired musician smiles distractedly for almost the entire song and Clemens thinks that he breaks the consecutive conventions of musicians, those with a grim face and gloom.   
His face is not like his sister's, when she murders herself over Bach, he is also unlike all those violinists he had seen before in Vienna and Budapest. After all, he tries to approach the musician from a distance, not distracted by his slim fingers and how neatly they climb the neck of violin, and even more so do not think about him privately, because it never ends well. With the rest, the man has something that makes Clemens watch. 

And everything would work if the violinist played a concert, bowed and came down from the stage with applause. However, when the living room fills up with cheers and applause, he gently turns his face towards the red-haired boy in the second row, smiles with a certain amount of cynicism and winks. Clemens is almost certain that his face is completely red, because he feels heat on his cheeks. Fortunately, the violinist no longer looks in his direction, instead he receives applause, smiling at the audience, bows and leaves the stage.

Just a few minutes later, another musician enters the stage, this time a pianist, loudly tapping heels on oak boards, informing the audience about his arrival. Clemens sees the look on his face: a return to the roots, narcissism and superiority and he feels a strange disappointment that this is the end of the performance of the fair-haired violinist. He still has the impression that his face is burning and his temples are pulsating dangerously, so touching his mother's elbow and informs that he needs air and leaves the room. 

When he finally goes outside, he immediately heads towards the nearby park. He walks between the hedges, reaches an avenue of flowers, shimmering with every shade of yellow and red, which the old gardener carefully cares for, gets lost in the maze of gates, Greek stone sculptures and ivy climbing on stone balustrades. Finally, he reaches a nearby pond. He sits on a wooden bench and pulls out a cigarette case. From here, he sees the shutters of the living room, from which there are more sounds of the raw piano, while simultaneously looking at the swans and ducks on the other side of the water. He can breathe, away from dolls in compressed corsets, away from sleek cylinders and, above all, away from the flirtatious, insolent violinist. He is just starting a second cigarette when he hears a male voice behind him, with the strangest French accent he has ever heard: 

‘Bonjour.’

The voice is soft at the same time, but the syllables seem harsh, so Clemens thinks he would not despise if that voice recited Rimbaud's poems in the evenings. He turns around almost immediately and here he is. Mr. insolent, flirtatious violinist himself, standing next to one of the willows, leaning against it hip playfully.

‘Comment vous vous appelez?’ Redhead again hears a strange accent, asking him by name and wonders if the violinist does not speak Polish, or simply assumed that Clemens is French.

‘Klemens.’ he responds reluctantly, with a sharp native accent, allowing the last consonant to resound. 

Mister impudent fiddler raises an eyebrow, smiles wryly and pulls a red-haired cigarette out of his mouth, showing that the wink from the stage was only a prelude to what he can do. Which for Clemens is both devilishly appealing and warning of a tempting man.

‘Will you let me, monsieur Clément?’ he asks, almost after the fact, puffing on his cigarette, while that disgusting ironic smile does not leave his lips.

Clemens does not improve the blonde, he knows that he does all this on purpose and the easiest way is to ignore all these pokes. He tries not to pay attention to the slim fingers and knuckles surrounding the cigarette, cheekbones highlighted with each inhalation, arms wrapped in satin and long legs in elegant pants.

‘Where are my manners.’ he says immediately, placing the cigarette in his hand and putting his right hand forward. ‘Elias Maron.’

‘Is that a French surname?’ asks Clemens, giving him a freckled hand while trying to get his cigarette back.

‘Is this the moment when we introduce ourselves to our families?’

Clemens blushes, and tries to hide a little behind the curls that are currently combed back. He feels a little uncomfortable with a bold violinist who has no shame. 

‘My father is from Paris,’ the musician finally says, looking at the embarrassed freckled man. ‘But I only have his name and aversion to France.’

Clemens wonders if he should keep asking, but when he sees Elias sitting next to him on the bench, he understands the allusion: they can talk about it.

‘So you live permanently in Poland?’

Elias shakes his head with amusement, and his bright strands of hair are scattered by the wind. Redhead expects a clear answer, but the musician once again surprises him, almost breathless: 

And from then on I bathed in the Poem  
Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,  
Devouring the azure verses; where, like a pale elated  
Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks;

Clemens is close to begging him to recite it again, this time in French. Just a moment ago he was thinking about the voice of the then-stranger, citing Rimbaud, and now the blond answers his questions by reciting his poem, so, despite all this dislike of musicians, the violinist impressed him. 

‘I didn't think you knew Rimbaud.’

‘The sea is full of secrets.’ the violinist answers aggressively, closing his eyes and enjoying the pleasant spring sun.

The last notes of the piano concert are coming to an end when the two men on the bench already know their biographies, exchanged the addresses of their favorite tailors and realized that although they divide a lot: Elias loves the hermetic world of musicians and concerts until the morning, and Clemens prefers painting in the comfort of the garden , they also have a lot in common: love of literature, longing for travels and strange worship of the sea. Red-haired has the impression that he knew Elias much longer than just a few dozen minutes, as if he had met him before. The concert ends, however, the redhead does not get on the carriage with his mother, because the violinist boldly pulls his wrist towards the monastery on the hill.

‘Elias, it’s inappropriate...’

‘Be careful because I believe in your good manners. I saw you roll your eyes at a concert.’ the violinist answers, trying neatly to pull a cigarette case out of the red-haired tailcoat, probably just taking the opportunity to touch it with impunity. The painter knows that his mother would be outraged by the behavior of someone almost strange to her son, the directness of the violinist and, above all, the prohibited behavior of the boy towards the boy: flirtatiousness.

Clemens, however, has a feeling that this is the end of the era, the last breaths of romanticism that will probably turn into something more practical. Balls and parties will disappear, court etiquette will be rejected, and ancestral silver and jewelry will lose sentimental significance in the whirlwind of pragmatism. Redhead is a bit afraid of this change in the world. In fact, although he hates nonsense, he can't imagine a world without melancholy, folk beliefs and conservative mysticism.

‘Is this the twilight of the epoque?’ Clemens asks Elias suddenly as they walk side by side toward the hill.

‘I believe that the next genre will come to art without killing the temporal.’

There are already places in the courtyard that before the French Revolution could have been called a monastery. The columns still bear traces of bullets, the floor has a gunshot wound every step, some of the pillars have collapsed, and the frescoes and stained glass have lost their color over time. Now it looks more like the command center of the Bohemian Paris: bohemia has left its mark here. Right next to a broken window, an old harpsichord with a torn-off flap was set up, the floor here and there are still traces of paint, and green bottles glisten in the sun, just by the southern wall of the building. Clemens is almost certain that on the way they passed the vault, on which the former saint fresco was repainted in the act.

‘Art will remain art as long as someone believes in it as a being, not a field or craft.’ says Elias, staring at the ceiling of the monastery.

‘ And those are whose words? I do not know them.’

Elias smiles distractedly again, pulling a small green vial from the bottom of the violin case. 

‘My own. Maybe I wrote some poems once.’

Green eyes widen in surprise. He never combined musicians and writers into one character, it seemed to him that the sensitivity of poets was at odds with the closed world of music, where there is no room for guessing, there is only precision, hours of practice and focus.

‘Read me something’ asks Clemens as the blond man sets crystal stemwares on the floor and with concentration, holding a smoldering cigarette in his mouth, spills herbal liquid through the sugar cubes lying on decorative spoons.

‘Please, give me a few moments.’

Redhead stares at the suspiciously green liquid for a moment, which reminds him of a deceptive shade of water in the fall. He has all these devilish ponds in his head, where floaters reign and the water has a colour of drowning. He is accustomed to the bloody shades of wine, not mystical, suspicious substances. 

‘Is that...’

‘Absinthe,’ blond interrupts him. ‘End of age, it's terribly sentimental, isn't it?’

Clemens is not sure about himself, nonsense that he can mold and deeds he can commit. Absinthe has been reigning in crystal glasses of Paris for years, is the muse of poets and composers, an inseparable companion of aristocracy, but it has indescribable power that can cost a lot.

‘How old are you?’ the blond asks, giving the glass to the redhead.

‘Seventeen.’

‘Damn me!’ says the surprised violinist sincerely, tilting the glass next to his mouth.

Clemens feels like he's blushing again, but he's not going to act like a kid. He shrugs nonchalantly and lights a cigarette, then raises the crystal dish and announces somewhat dramatically:

‘For the end of the age and dying artists.’

He feels burning in his throat, herbal heat, feels like he has taken poison, which is spread in the best possible way. He sees the fiddler, the blissful gaze of the violinist, who stands up and, positioning himself in a theatrical pose, begins to recite one of the poems.   
Two glasses of drunk later their native language is mixed with French, both of them recite sonnets for racing, chasing in rhymes and metaphors and continue their reflection. 

‘What if we're the last romantics?’ asks Elias, propped on his hand, getting lost in the smoke.

‘Then we won't be able to die young.’

‘We're on a deadly wounded ship that is sinking, hit by an industrial machine. We are definitely dying.’

Clemens shakes his head. Curls, so carefully combed by his mother, managed to return to his previous state: now they surround the freckled face, fall to the forehead and cascade around the shoulders. For a long time Elias has one hand immersed in a conflagration of hair, affected by how red and twisted they can be, although it can be a mere excuse. 

‘I do not want to listen to this. Art doesn't die. We don't die. She will not die with us and we will not die because of her.’

Elias decides only to nod his head and approach the painter's figure. A little involuntarily runs his fingers over milky skin, covered with constellations of freckles and cheeks flushed from drunk alcohol. Soon the fingertips gently brush the painter's lip. 

‘Can I?’

Clemens wants to say no, it's a bit immoral, they know each other for only a day, Elias is a man, and redhead doesn't even like musicians, but he thinks about everything he didn't do in his life and what he did, about people he met and other musicians from whose violinist is so different, so instead of answering, he places his hands on the neck of an older man, gently combing his fair hair. 

Redhead feels a herbal taste on the tongue and pleasant warmth right next to the lips. It would seem that after all this afternoon of mutual seduction and mutual flirtation, the kiss will be hungry and dirty, but it is just like their whole era: slow and stretchy, calm, almost nostalgic. The painter's cool hands wander the violinist's satin shirt, his fingers crawl under the collar and scarf, and his legs entwine around the narrow hips themselves, knocking over the crystal glasses.

Clemens devotes the last free thought to Elias's vision in the garden: he could finally paint someone, watch the fog dance at the crack of dawn, and maybe, just maybe, he would like music. And maybe absinthe gave him courage, or secretly needed to experience something great, because that same night he allows him to lead to the small manor of his lover and kiss almost to death. 

***

They spend their days smoking cigarettes slowly, when surrounded by smoke, a moment after taking opium, they vigorously discuss uprisings, revolution and passing literature. Every dawn clings to the dusk, imperceptibly they reach the invisible barrier of the era. Melancholy gives way to practicality, spiritualism and irrationalism die in the dark to make room for a stable faith in the material. Individualists fade, faith in the nation is not prioryty anymore. France is changing, it is no longer a refuge of artists and exiles, it becomes unpleasant and empty, conflicting. 

‘My dear,’ one day Elias says uncertainly as they lie on one of the green couches in the manor house of the musician. ‘I am leaving.’

A pair of green eyes in a second breaks away from the yellowed pages of the book and freezes anxiously on the face of the violinist. 

‘For long?’

Elias hesitates for a moment, seeing how green it gets sad with every delayed second. He doesn't know how to confess it's a trip overseas, perhaps irrevocable. Well, he is almost certain that he will never see Paris again, his father caused too much trouble, in the face of all these changes he no longer feels safe, whereas the United States offers him citizenship in exchange for concerts and composing.

‘Forever.’ he finally utters the most painful two words and sees the sad, unhappy green turning into a desperate shade of malachite and the depths of sea drowning, until he is finally lost in tears and sobs.

‘What about me?’ asks Clemens, but he realizes that he has no right to stop the musician.

Elias shakes his head, can't say anything by himself. The red-haired painter turned his head and would like to take him with him, but he knows it's too selfish. The place of Clemens has always been France, he loved her charms, architecture and vegetation, so with a gap in his chest he doesn't even offer him a trip. 

‘When do you leave?’  
‘In this month.’

Clemens nods in understanding, but he feels as if his heart is broken into hundreds of pieces, as if it is crumbling with every second.

‘I love y--’ he starts, but Elias’ lips pressed against his temples silence him.

‘Don't say that, Clemens. This will make it harder.’

They spend the rest of the evening in silence, but absurdly close together. Clemens smokes cigarettes, sitting between Elias's legs and with an empty, glass gaze staring at the smoldering oil lamp, while the blond follows the index finger with each freckle on the redhead's face in an attempt to learn their layout by heart.

‘We were to live as long as art.’ Clemens tries desperately for the last time. 

‘We're not dying. We break art into two separate currents.’

Clemens did not think that the man he would love would be a violinist, he did not even like music.   
Elias did not think he would leave his heart in France, which he hated since childhood.

Days go one by one, inexorably. It's like a convict's judgment and his final countdown. Elias and Klemens try to live as they did before: discuss poetry, argue over the predominance of painting over music and catch the days together, but they both secretly count the days that will separate them forever. However, time is a capricious god who does not take prisoners and finally the day of their separation comes. 

When they stand at the port, waiting for Elias' ship, they remain silent. There are too many words that they would like to say to each other, but they know it will make it harder. No noble declarations, desperate confessions, promises. Until the ship appears on the horizon, which is to take away everything from Clemens.   
He falls into Elias's arms and clutches his coat tightly in his hands, sobbing. The blond is not better, he embraces the frail painter and tries to remember every detail for the last time: protruding shoulder bones, hands dirty with paints, tangled, fiery curls, the constellation of Sagittarius on the cheek and thousands of others on every inch of the body covered with freckles and above all: green eyes , now full of tears and the saddest in the world, which were usually full of happiness, shimmering like absinthe, drunk on the first night together.   
When the ship reaches the port and whistles, Clemens knows that these are the last, last minutes.   
So, contrary to people's beliefs, ignoring indignation and confusion, he draws Elias to a desperate and violent kiss, salty from their tears, where instead of sighs of pleasure, they covered their farewell lament. Before the blond man irrevocably goes across the ocean, he pushes Clemens’ old pocket watch into his hand and whispers in the ear a secret known only to the two of them.

‘Will we ever meet again?’ asks Clemens desperately as Elias makes his steps aboard, knowing that this is probably their last meeting.

Elias smiles in this distracting way reserved for Clemens and, putting on his forehead one of their last kisses of the nineteenth century, says: 

‘For some of our next incarnations, Clément.’


	3. XX

The silence in the living room is interrupted by the cracking of broken glass and then the raised voice of a man. 

‘What did you mother imagine making this decision without my knowledge?!’ the angry young man yells, breaking all the crystal vases, old tableware and glass objects that only wound around his arm as he walked madly from the library to the dining room. ‘Work on board a ship as a violinist? It's almost serving people!’

A woman standing near the window, with anxiety painted on her face, tries to calm her son and - above all - to hide delicate souvenirs and old dishes placed on dressers and tables. 

‘I thought you would be happy, you like the sea...’

‘Yes, but I don't want to be there damn half a year! Does mother always have to pack me in such bloody shit?’

‘Watch your words, boy! I did it because you have nothing to do here, you don't work, you don't have a penny of these poor concerts, and I will not live forever. Elias, look, maybe you'll meet someone there, explore the world, do what you like.’

The man is still furiously clenching his fingers on the porcelain box, but instead of smashing it by throwing it on the rug, he gently puts it on the ebony table top and rubs his face with his hands. The thought of months away from home, from his mother and known reality scares him. He doesn't want to leave his hometown, leave a musician's job in a tavern and throw himself into the unknown. On the other hand, nothing holds him. There is no beloved person to part with, no garden to look after. He's young and it's the best time to risk it.   
He takes a cigarette out of a metal case and, putting it in his mouth, says with a sigh:

‘Okay. Let it be.’

When they reach the port a few days later, he is overcome by greater terror than before. The ship is huge: magnificent, shiny, with hundreds of cabins and dozens of turbines, a deck of oak boards and a crew that is preparing for the cruise, checking the last details. Although Elias is not completely inexperienced when it came to sea voyages, he sailed many times with a fishing boat, but the small boat did not match the power of the ship in front of him. Voices are heard from everywhere: the booming crew "what immersion do we have, Captain Danenhofer?", great farewells "be sure to send me a letter when you arrive!", as well as love confessions that make the violinist nauseous. He sees the first-class rich who load their possessions on board, leather suitcases and precious jewelery, dresses and furs, paintings and even chairs. He looks at elegant ladies in hats, men in perfectly tailored tailcoats with cigars in their mouths, and their children with governess who are interested in the ship much more than their parents. When the richest are already on the ship, it is the turn of the medium-prosperous, in modest clothes, with a small amount of luggage. Shortly thereafter, the poorest, workers and their families, with one, at most two torn suitcases, for whom the cruise is a displacement, not an expensive pastime. The orchestra, although accommodated where the crew, is one of the last in the richer parts of the ship. The fair-haired man says goodbye to his mother and whispers in her ear that he will jump out of the ship if he doesn't like it, then he looks at the city for the last time and gets on board. He sees people waving their loved ones, handkerchiefs waving in the wind and lots of bitter tears, but he skips this part of goodbyes. He collects his suitcases and violin case from the deck, then goes back to his cabin without looking back.

***

The first two weeks are the adventure of a lifetime, a romantic dream entangled in the smoke of everyday life. Cool mornings with a breeze on the face, unique sunrises seen from the middle of the ocean, an unforgettable circus of lights hovering above and above the water surface, accompanied by the screams of seagulls and waves bouncing on the ship's hull. An empty deck in the morning allows Elias to enjoy the moment, only he, the wind and the sea, the face lashed by the rays of the sun.   
The evenings are monotonous: playing for dinner, playing on board until late at night, the same symphonies, the same spectators, tedious applause. Nobody focuses on music, it is only the basis for loud conversations about money and investments, ice buzzing in glasses of whiskey, drunken boasts of the rich. They are an accompaniment to all that the blonde hates. And although he himself came from a quite wealthy family, his mother taught him to appreciate art: music, furniture, painting. Elias regrets not playing under the deck for third-class crowds who desire music, thrilling dance. Rhythmic and joyful music, lively, releasing sometimes contradictory emotions. The blond knows that he would play there for half the bounty he gets now, but he would play his favorite pieces with real virtuosity and have fun with the crowd. However, he sits in an elegant outfit and plays another sleepy waltz to which no one dances.  
That is for two whole weeks: dreamy mornings and tedious evenings, routine and schematic. Until one night, when from among the whirl of elegant dresses and flashy hats, tailor-made tailcoats, pale, bland faces, a sharp gaze emerges, followed by ruddy cheeks covered with freckles and absurdly red hair, reflecting on the background of perfect hairstyles, gold cufflinks and pearl ribbons. Elias looks at the boy for a moment, but he knows that soon the piece is changing and he will again have to focus on a series of notes. When he looks again from behind the desktop, the redhead is gone. Violinist hopes that he will have the opportunity to meet him again. However, a week passes, and freckled man never appeared on the deck in the evening, the intense green gaze is not directed at the music, and the thought of the red-haired boy makes Elias sleep awake.   
The days on the ship begin to lengthen: the nights become sleepless, laid on the deck boards, where the violinist faces his thoughts, trying to count the stars, the sunrises no longer have a great, sublime tone, and the evening concerts only hope to see a freckled face in a crowd of powdered ladies and young men covered in cigarette smoke.

However, everything starts somewhat absurdly.

Elias awakens the coldness that wraps around his face and feet and looks through the round window of the cabin. The sky is covered with a layer of dark, storm clouds, fog spreads around, and the deck boards get wet. The fiddler intends to close his eyes again and go back to sleep, after all, there is no reason to leave the bunk. The rising sun is covered with garnet and gray, and heavy drops hit the water, falling into the ocean. The icy wind cuts, razor-sharp, coat the deck with a wet coating, the pale flashes of a nearby lantern dance on the rough waves and everything is surrounded by inevitable apathy. But then Elias realizes that the sheet of notes is still close to the stern and gets wet, so despite the downpour, taking on only a bathrobe, he runs out of the cabin. And when he arrives, he thinks his inattention is a blessing.

At one of the armchairs, near the lifeboats, there is one stooped silhouette, wet in every inch, with shoulder-length characteristic red curls now tangled by wind and rain. He sits with his back, chin tilted down, trying to light a miserable cigarette, as wet as the boy himself.

‘Damn it.’ he murmurs, still unaware of being watched.

Elias wonders if the boy is crazy: he tries to fight a storm when the lightning bolts hurled by the angry god on the horizon and almost ignores the rain, pulling out another cigarette with trembling hands, exposing him to the fate of the previous one. The fair-haired man sees a leather briefcase wrapped in plastic under a chair and a piece of cloth, so he begins to wonder who the boy is and what he does on the ship. But he is not going to wait any longer and wonder, he has been doing it for the last few days, so he comes closer and speaks:

‘It will be easier for you inside.’ Redhead jumps up and releases a cigarette, and it falls straight into a puddle of water. 

‘Damn it.’ the boy repeats, trying to save the sinking cigarette by dipping his hand in the puddle.

Elias thinks the redhead is really crazy, so he grabs his wrist. He sees how slender the boy's hand is, he notices the paint under his fingernails and a crumpled pencil right at the edge of his hand. He smiles at the sight of freckles that surround his ankles and fingers. He wonders if he met a painter by accident. 

Instead, he says:

‘Come with me, I have cigarettes in the cabin.’ 

Redhead follows him, trembling slightly from the cold, leaving behind wet footprints (only now Elias noticed that all this time, when the redhead was sitting cross-legged, he was barefoot). Both from the fiddler's robe and the coat that covers the shoulders of the green-eyed (‘God,’ Elias thinks ‘he certainly has freckles on them’) water drips, leaving long streaks behind them.

The blond’s cabin is closer to the hull than the stern. The door, although simple for this part of the ship, has a lot of decorations and before the redhead is able to look around the corridor, they are inside. The cabin is warm and cozy, there is an unmade bunk under the round window, a case further away lies the violin case and a suitcase with lots of elegant, expensive clothes.

‘Take off that damn coat before the whole ship gets a cold.’ Elias says, trying to pull off his wet clothes from the boy and dig out something warm from one of the linden dressers, while the red one finally lights a cigarette, closing his eyes.

‘Are you trying to seduce me?’ he asks amused, watching the attempt of the violinist to take off his wet clothes, who is wearing only a thin dressing gown.

Elias wonders how it is possible that this boy looking from under his eyelashes sounds so provocative at the same time when he puffs on a cigarette, as well as subtly, almost innocent. 

‘The question is, would you like to be seduced?’ asks Elias, risking a lot. Just because he only thought about the red boy for the past week and his storm of red curls doesn't mean it worked the other way around. After all, freckle could have a fiancée at home who eagerly awaits his return. Although something suggested to Elias that this was not the case.

‘I don't even know your name.’ he says flirtatiously, then presses the cigarette into his mouth and holds it with his teeth while his hands are wrapped in a warm blanket.

‘Elias.’ Musician reaches out his hand, but doesn't give it to redheads. Instead, he pulls a cigarette out of his mouth and inserts it into his mouth, breathes in.

‘Clemens. And now, Elias, if you please, be so kind and give me back my cigarette.’

That day, the situation repeats several times: Clemens lights a cigarette after a cigarette, and Elias ruthlessly pulls it out of his mouth. Outside, it doesn't stop raining, and although the storm is over, it doesn't promise to lighten up, so the two spend the day in a roofed, warm cabin without exposing themselves to a disastrous, icy wind or a chill from the east. Clemens still rolled up between the blankets, right next to the wall, with a leather briefcase next to his chest, Elias in a bathrobe and completely mismatched patent leather shoes. 

‘Are you a painter?’ asks blond hair, looking at the bundle that Clemens holds.

‘You could say. Recently, I sketch more often, there are no conditions for spreading the easel and paints on the ship, paintings change too quickly: storm, pale horizon, hazy dawn, bright daybreak and inky twilight. I don't have enough time to paint details when the view that stretches out in front of me is so changeable and unstable. Sketches are not so interesting.’

The fair-haired man nods and stretches his hand silently towards the briefcase. Redhead eyebrows frown for a moment and the boy looks like he is fighting if he should trust Elias, but finally gives him his work with a slight nod. The violinist watches them in silence. He sees a lot of sketches of the same brick building, simple, without decorations and expensive finishes, finds a few watercolors, mainly landscapes, sees portraits of people and surreal designs. Finally, somewhere between the pages stuck together falls a small drawing of himself playing the violin. 

‘I'm sorry’ Clemens begins to explain, blushing. - Just when you played, you had such a focused, beautiful expression and...

‘Clemens.’ says blond. ‘Nothing happened at all. Did you sketch it that evening?’

The redhead is embarrassed again, looking down.

‘No, I actually came everyday.’

‘I’ve never seen you.’

‘I didn't get on the main deck, I was in the corridor between the passage to the boiler room and these decorative stairs.’

Elias wonders why the redhead hasn't come closer and why he is actually on the ship. He didn't look like the rich kid who was with his parents, but he certainly wasn't a third-class worker. He had delicate hands and even gentler facial features, worrying uncertainty and some childhood fears. He wore a long coat and mismatched beige pants with suspenders and he seemed simply unobvious to Elias.

A moment later, the fair-haired receives the answer to all questions. 

I'm an orphan. They displaced our entire orphanage, we were supposed to leave by Sydney ship last Saturday, but it happened that I had reached the age of majority the day before. They did not know what to do with me, so it was most convenient to give me some state art scholarship, pack these few things that I have and put on a random ship that has free seats on board. So i am here. I don't even know where I'm going. They made me behave with dignity and keep a distance from the main deck, you know, the first classes: the rich with gold teeth and damsels with pearls around the neck. But then I heard the music, saw you play and wanted to capture it. Once again, please forgive me.

Elias ignores the apology and instead asks:

‘So where do you sleep? In third class?’

Clemens shakes his head uncertainly and seems embarrassed, so the blond already knows that the answer will be shocking.

‘Behind the boiler room, I have a mattress in the luggage compartment. But to be honest, I do not sleep there best because of the terrible noise and heat, cinders from the furnaces and the rumbling of turbines.’

‘That's why you sat on the deck this morning despite the downpour?’ 

Clemens nods again. 

So I insist you to move in here. It's too big a cabin for one person, and I like to share cigarettes so... 

‘No way.’ the redhead interrupts him, completely changing his expression. ‘I have everything there, moreover, I may get off at the next port and…’

‘Oh, don't bother. You said yourself that you don't have many things and I insist you to think it over. In addition, it will be difficult to seduce you if you are in a boiler room.’

The freckled face brightens a little, though the boy still doesn't seem convinced. 

While Clemens considers everything for (a beautiful violinist at his fingertips, a comfortable and peaceful place to sleep, a window with a view of the waves, a delightful interior, the right temperature and probably a few more) and against (‘is this the case? know each other only one afternoon’), Elias looks at the decorative clock standing on the davenport.

‘Fie!’ he exclaims, seeing that only a few minutes are left until dinner. He quickly picks up a pile of notes he has saved, grabs the violin case and runs out of the cabin.

The painter's quite loud voice stops him: Elias, bathrobe! The fair-haired man turns and sees his reflection in the glass. He is still wearing only a piece of satin material and patent leather shoes and knows that he must win the war against time and in just a few minutes to put on something suitable. Therefore, not caring about conventions and manners, he throws the robe off his shoulders and leans towards one of the wardrobes in the hope that he will find a complete outfit there. He does not notice behind his back a redhead who can not look away from his pale back and narrow hips, protruding bones and slim legs. Instead, almost naked, rustling with clothes, trying to find a shirt and vest. He tangles in buttons and fasteners, forgets about his frock coat and runs out of the cabin at the last moment, heading straight for the deck.  
Several days have passed since that great downpour, during which Elias and Clemens become almost inseparable: from strangers they have become companions who know each other, who talk about their lives for hours, realizing how close and similar are their souls. Elias took Clemens to an empty deck in the morning so that he could see the sunrise from over the ocean, while the redhead acquainted the violinist with third-class musicians. And although the redhead still refuses to officially move to the violinist's cabin, he spends most days or even nights there, falling asleep over the unfinished sketch. For Elias, it all seems unnaturally natural, as if they have always known each other: bedding soaked in the sharp smell of cigarettes, pencils scattered across the floor, a stain of turpentine on the Persian rug and a pile of red curls scattered between the pillows. The fair-haired man finds himself thinking that he could always wipe away traces of paint from the dresser and cover the little painter when he falls asleep on the floor in an uncomfortable position.   
The thought that someone appreciates his music, listens to him playing on board and almost every evening waits in the cabin until the violinist returns to share his impressions, pours disturbingly a lot of warmth into his heart and fills him with a strange, hitherto unknown feeling. However, he does not speak thoughts aloud, he feels uncomfortable with what he feels for the red-haired boy, so he is silent.

‘Come to the main deck today for the concert.’ says Elias, buttoning his shirt’s cuffs as the bored painter arranges his pencils. 

‘I don't have the right outfit.’ sighs Clemens, rolling with a sweeping movement on his back so that he can see the ceiling.

‘ Put on something mine’ the violinist immediately answers, prepared for the excuse of the redhead. ‘ I do not accept a refusal.’

Clemens finds no argument that would persuade Elias to stay in his cabin. He wants - of course he wants - to listen to the symphony up close, but he is terrified by the thought of all the elegant ladies and their husbands who could recognize him as a man from the lower realms. Before he can answer, Elias digs a shirt tied with ribbons, one of his favorites, which in the sun takes on a pearly glow and points towards the redhead.

‘Elias, I don't even know how...’

‘Wait, I will help you you tie it, you can get it wrong’ the violinist offers. ‘Insert it through the head, ribbons forward.’

For a few moments he sees the silhouette of a painter devoid of an old shirt: freckles on the shoulders he thought of on the first day of their acquaintance, milky skin and clearly defined rib bones. Elias is breathtaking and must stop himself from tightening his frail body in his arms.   
Double wraps ribbon around each wrist, tying knots on the cuffs and creates a bow at the collar, gently, almost accidentally touching the painter's neck. At that time, the red-haired man is putting an old, 18th-century watch, covered with rust, from his old trousers into his inner coat pocket.

‘Where did you get this watch from?’ Elias asks, frowning.

‘I've always had it, I don't even know who gave it to me. Certainly someone important because I am not able to part with him.’ 

‘I have the impression that I've seen him somewhere before.’ he says, searching for a similar subject in his memory. ‘Does not matter.’

Clemens smiles as the violinist adjusts his ribbon at his left cuff, but he doesn't have much time to look at Elias's pale face closely as the boy hurries to the concert. 

‘Take a tailcoat, the night will be cold.’ Elias says, pulling his hands off his shirt, then searching the desk for the right notes. ‘Let's meet after the concert at the lifeboats.’

Elias feels the gaze of the green irises all evening and is almost sure that Clemens did not take his eyes from him. He wonders if there is any greater interest in this from the red-haired boy, who actually wasn't indifferent to Elias anymore. He wanted to be able to be interested in him, view sketches, watch the sunrises on board, and more often he found himself thinking that he would like to say “my Clemens.”   
He glances at him several times and is still as much as before, he is delighted to see the painter in his shiny shirt. The pearl white contrasts with the conflagration of his hair, the dark green tailcoat emphasizes the depth of his eyes and the violinist almost mistaken in the solo part when he sees slim fingers, unwittingly nibbling one of the curls and lips dragging a cigarette at the same time.   
The evening is mercilessly big for him, he wants to disentangle himself from the pile of formal clothes, throw the note of a boring symphony and, above all, finally meet the painter.   
When finally the last tone of the piece resounds, and the deck is filled with gentle applause, the blond turns to the stairs on which Clemens is standing and, raising the corner of his mouth, winks brazenly at him. Even from this distance, he sees a scarlet blush, so proudly gets up, bows and, without exchanging words with fellow musicians, directs his steps towards lifeboats. 

‘So why are we here?’ asks Clemens, who has just loosened the ribbon just around his neck and sits cross-legged on the wooden deck boards. The wind is gusty and dispels his curls just like during that downpour, but the boy does not seem so gloomy anymore. 

People disappeared in their cabins or exclusive first class bars, choosing the heat of burning alcohol in the esophagus and the coldness of ice cubes. The night was too cold to be spent outside, and even starry sky enthusiasts quickly hid from a temperature that was unchanging on the ocean like nowhere else.

‘Well,’ Elias says with a suspicious smile. ‘We're definitely not going to freeze here.’

Redhead frowns, but quickly realizes what the violinist means when he rummages in a case, after a while pulling out a bottle of amber alcohol from it.

‘For those at sea!’ toasting, taking the first sip, then handing the bottle to Clemens.

The painter accepts the dish with a trembling, ossified hand, slipping another cigarette into his mouth.

‘Are you cold?’ Elias asks, noticing how redhead shakes.

Clemens nods, drinking some alcohol in the hope of warming up, but the bottle is quickly pulled out and the person himself is pulled from his wrist towards the lifeboat attached to the side. 

‘You're crazy.’ he says, trying to break free from the grip of the violinist.

‘Come on, it's much warmer there, it doesn't blow...’

And despite protests and complaints, uncertainty (‘Elias, for God's sake, they will throw us out of the ship!’) and conservative glances towards the crow's nest, a dozen or so minutes later they are sitting in a roofed lifeboat, definitely put in place. 

‘I didn't think you had such a weak head.’ Elias mumbles, seeing Clemens’ sleepy gaze and how he props his head on his hands.

‘You are no better at all, you can barely hold the bottle.’ he answers by opening the cigarette case.

‘You'll burn the ship, you fooo-ol.’ the violinist babbles, trying to snatch the painter's unburned cigarette.

‘Damn it.’ The cigarette is falling under their feet and they can't see it in the dark now.

Elias has been looking for an excuse for a long time to get closer to the boy sitting far-too-far, and alcohol and looking for doom seem like the perfect plan. He leans toward him, then gets in closer and now their faces are so close that Elias can feel his breath on his cheeks and the smell of alcohol.

‘Can I kiss you?’ he asks, gently placing his hand on the painter's shoulder.

‘Do you think I'm so easy to kiss when I'm drunk?’ he replies, raising an eyebrow and smiling mockingly. 

Elias doesn't pick up a joke and immediately sobers up, stepping back and muttering a blurred apology. He hopes he didn't break anything and Clemens didn't hate him. He still babbles that he doesn't consider him easy and asks for forgiveness, and then Clemens grabs him by the hand that was just around his neck a moment ago and asks: 

‘Damn, are you kissing or not?’

Elias's eyes widen, but he doesn't let the painter wait any longer. In the darkness he finds his lips and embraces him around the waist and starts a long, slow kiss. He would like to be able to call him dirty, after all he is full of saliva and tongues and knocking teeth, but the red-haired lips are sinless and although this is the most memorable and passionate kiss in the life of a violinist, he is completely innocent at the same time. At least until the red-haired man decides to remove his coat and then his elegant tailcoat, fighting with a row of buttons and leaving him only in a shirt, suspenders and vest. When he takes off another layer of the violinist's clothes and notices that the shirt is not the usual buttoned one, it only has sleeves and a stiff, stringed collar, its irritation has no limits.

‘How many damn layers are you wearing? ‘ asks frustrated Clemens, fighting with buckles on puffy sleeves.

‘Just a chastity belt. You need to find the key, I hid it on the ship’ The musician teases.

Instead of answering, he can feel the painter's lips on his neck and a gentle bite on his shoulder, and then his hands on his back, who almost chase the last layer out of him. 

‘  
I'm not easy,’ repeats Clemens, lips moving on Elias' skin. ‘I'm making an exception for you.’ 

The next minutes are transformed into art: high sounds that the musician produces without a violin, only thanks to the painter, crimson stains covering their bodies like the most expensive paint, hands gliding between the ribs like the fingers of a pianist on the keys. Clemens squeezes on the violinist's knees, their breaths become shallow and dazed, slow movements change into more hurried, only they are their lips and hands and the chill of the night. 

‘Will you now move from the boiler room to the cabin? We won't have to risk getting thrown out of the ship for sex in a lifeboat’ Elias says a little later, buttoning up his shirt sleeves.

Clemens smiles and intends to answer him: yes, when both of them feel a surge of wind, tilting their boat, and then thunder reaches their ears, and the eyes see a flare. And one would like to say that the weather over the ocean is extremely variable, but this time it is not a storm or a downpour.   
Clemens leans out of the boat and sees the burning mast of the ship, half-broken and a hole in the deck. 

The ship is sinking. 

‘What's happening?’ Elias asks, still hidden in the lifeboat, seeing Clemens’ body tighten immediately, begin to tremble, and is as fragile again as on the first night of rainfall on the deck.

‘Lightning struck the ship, we sink.’

The chill of the night was cut by one crack that would burn dozens of lives. The ship was fatally wounded. The vengeful Poseidon declared war on the seafarers and apparently entangled his brother Zeus in his ranks, throwing lightning to the sea, crushing boats and ships with God's will. Perhaps, however, this is the war of the brothers, where the element of water tries to show strength, creating waves worthy of Olympus and pulling the worst spooks out of the foamy depths to win over the fire, entangling the dispute of the unfortunate who accidentally found themselves at sea. 

Blood leaves Elias's face and the man knows his responsibilities at the moment: play until the last second, until everyone is put in the lifeboats or until they get to the bottom. Apparently, the captain and the orchestra leave the ship last, and actually stay with him forever, but the blond did not expect that he could be put in such a situation. And maybe months ago, when he had nothing to lose, he would put his life lightly on this scarf, shrugged his shoulders and went into the arms of death, but now he has a red-haired boy in front of him, whose eyes are bursting with tears, and his hands desperately clench his cloak and Elias doesn't want to leave. However, he knows that there is no other way, everyone knows him here and will certainly get an order soon. He never understood the sense of the orchestra playing during these tragic evacuations, when in chaos people save their belongings and look for loved ones. The music was not soothing, it was only an accompaniment to death, walking proudly on the burning deck.

‘Stay here.’ he says, looking at the painter one last time. ‘You have to let me go.’

Clemens is silent, only shakes his head, his eyes seem insane, he does not want to let the violinist out of his arms, he knows that he will never see him again. 

‘Darling, please.’ he says, noting how extreme emotions trigger tragedies in people. He was never a supporter of great confessions and dramatic endings. Nothing mobilizes so much sensitivity than the vision of annihilation. ‘I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise. But stay here.’

And although Elias does not want it terribly, he forcibly breaks his grip, kisses the painter's lips one last time and subtly touching his cheeks, wiping away his tears, he comes out of the lifeboat. He consider that this is more than thrown away “I love you” that would completely break the painter. 

It is only now that he sees the whole tragedy of the scene taking place on board: fire consuming more and more parts of the ship, broken chimneys almost like a symbol, he sees frenzy people who have broken up from sleep, run out in bathrobes to the deck, saving what they could, the crew that distributes life jackets in terror and tries to group people so that they can enter the lifeboats. The screams of passengers for help almost disappear among the furniture breaking under the influence of temperature, the force of the element takes the memories of the era and the great people who travel by ship. Crystal chandeliers burst, covering the upper deck with glass, canvas painted by Clemens turn to ashes, and rugs and curtains in first-class rooms burn at a frantic pace, spreading fire throughout the floor of the ship. The ship becomes a pillar of fire, a deadly trap that receives breath with gusto. Parts of the ship are slowly tearing apart, rivets and bolts melt under the influence of temperature and now, apart from the etching fire, the ship slowly begins to flood water, pulling it to the bottom. Elias notices the orchestra, which with no less fear plays the uncertain waltz. He joins them, refraining from looking at the lifeboat of Clemens. He knows that if he looks at the painter at least once, he will throw the instrument and run to him, losing the honor of the musician. It does not pass fifteen minutes when the cellist shakes his head with a quiet: ‘gentlemen, it was a pleasure to play with you’, then he puts the instrument down and desperately jumps into the water, hoping that the inevitable fire will not reach him.  
Elias begins Csardas, probably the last and most tragic, he feels cold water under his feet and feels the ship sink and lower. Perhaps it will break in half and sink before it burns. He sees liters of water falling into first-class salons through windows, smashed with the weight of the liquid, and from the opposite side a wall of fire and suffocating smoke comes. The fire spreads quickly, digests everything in its path, and the ship disappears with every moment under the cover of infernal heat. Half the lifeboats are already in the water, at a safe distance, and Elias sees that Clemens' lifeboat is moving away with every moment. He breathes a sigh of relief while choking on tears. He is aware of the specter of death in flames or ice water and loses his breath. Although he knows that he will die tonight, he is relieved to see the lifeboat of his beloved on the water. 

And then he hears his name. 

In this second, Elias curses God that he allowed it, he can't believe that Clemens came out of the jolly boat and is now overcoming the flames, approaching him. His hair is almost no different in color from the fire and the violinist wonders if the painter himself is a separate element. However, he does not want to check his mortality. 

‘What on earth are you doing?; Elias screams as Clemens falls into his arms, desperately clenching his fingers on the violinist's shirt.

‘I didn't want to without you.’

‘Get in the damn boat, kid.’

Redhead shakes his head, squeezing his eyes and takes a step back. 

'Clemens,' Elias says, putting in as much sensitivity as possible. ‘Look at me.’

After these words, he pulls a violin bow toward his face and, touching it with Clemens’ chin, lifts her up so that he can open his tearful eyes and look at him. 

‘Please, get in the boat.’

Redhead has no time to protest, because the fire is approaching them, spread by the wind. The darkness of the night meets the devil's conflagration, blocking men from all escape routes. Elias looks back and sees the side. All boats sailed away.

‘We have to jump into the water.’ he says. 

‘I can’t swim. - Redhead clenches his fingers on the fair-haired man's shoulder, looking horrifically at the vastness of water, but a second later, when the flames almost touch the legs of his pants, he releases Elias and jumps into icy mud with closed eyes, not looking at the blonde.

The fair-haired man doesn't even have a moment to think about it, he immediately jumps after him. If Clemens really can't swim, it's enough for him to lose to the current of water, waves and storm. The element of water has no power of fire, it is treacherous and much more unpredictable.

The water is terribly cold, Elias feels like a pile of daggers stuck into every scrap of skin. He ignores the pain and looks around in search of redhead. A ship sails around, looking for boats nearby that could take the boy aboard. The ocean is rough and it's harder to see anything through the wind and high waves, so it starts screaming. He screams until he loses his voice, and his eyes burn with tears as he realizes that he probably won't find Clemens. He feels guilty, and under his pressure the painter jumped into the water and was probably taken by it. The blond begins to fall from strength, he can no longer fight the element, salty water flows into his mouth and nose, his face swells and bruises. The fiddler feels his lungs taking in water. With the last of his strength, he tries to stretch his head above the surface, take a breath, find Clemens’ eyes, save himself, desperately and earnestly. In the last moments, he thinks he can hear the redhead's laughter, feel his hands on his cheeks and a quiet whisper: don't fight anymore. So he stops wrestling with the god of the sea, with the storm and the waves and goes down with the last thought: Clemens.

At dawn, the ocean is calm again. Pieces of incinerated boards drift freely on the water, carried by the waves, the remains of the shipwreck have long been at the bottom, along with the treasures of the decade. In the crystal depths, a pocket watch slowly sinks to the bottom. The sun rises above the surface, starting the next day and forgetting about the victims last night. The sky is ridiculously pink. When a painter dies, God lets him paint the sky one last time. A pearl ribbon floats on the azure water surface.


End file.
